


Knit One. Purl Two.

by jillcalt



Category: No Fandom
Genre: Insanity, Trigger Warning!, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-25
Updated: 2014-11-25
Packaged: 2018-02-26 15:14:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2656697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jillcalt/pseuds/jillcalt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Knit one. Purl two. Knit one. Purl two. This is how I spend my days here. In this rotten nut-house, knitting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knit One. Purl Two.

**Author's Note:**

> I guess this is TW, so proceed at your own risk. I actually wrote this in school. My teacher did ask where I got the idea, so I just said it was from a movie. This is a bit longer than my first story I posted, which I guess is good. Anyways, hopefully you enjoy it.

Knit one. Purl two. Knit one. Purl two. This is how I spend my days here. In this rotten nut-house, knitting. They don’t even tell us where we are. I could be anywhere. I could be in Kansas with Dorothy and Toto and not even know it. All that I know is that there are 800 other “prisoners” total in a building that was only built to hold 600 people.

I have been good for a while though, so I have been allowed to leave my room, but only at certain times. I was in Dorm 219 for sixteen years now. My birthday passed… Well, I think it did. They had taken the calendars away from everyone a while back. I never understood why, but I have had to count the days on my fingers. Today is December 18th, 1876. I turned thirty-one years old and I was brought in here when I was fifteen. I had to keep reminding myself that because it’s the only thing I was allowed to keep track of in this place. I had been in the hospital for several months because I was claimed to be “unstable”. I was only trying to get away from people, not be stuck into a hospital, and then that place, whatever you want to call it. I never had been good at making friends and I didn’t grow up in the best home or neighborhood. That is where it got me, knitting in what I like to call a “jail cell”. I just don’t like this, but I had learned to live with it.

There were rules that if you are good, meaning you kept quiet and listened to the doctors’ orders, you had a chance to go back to the hospital, and maybe go home if you did well in the hospital. I hadn’t been the best “prisoner” in the beginning. I dreaded that place. I wouldn’t sleep, eat, or talk. I sat in the corner of the room, hugging my knees to my chest with my eyes wide. If the doctors tried to drag me out of the “jail cell”, I would take in a deep breath and scream as loud as I could. I thought I had been doing alright for about three years, but the waiting list to leave had been backed up for about one year and a half.

At least I wasn’t put in a padded-room like Lana. She was kind when I arrived. Her hair had a beautiful silky feel to it, ebony colored, and olive skin. She always sat in the same blue chair in the dining hall, keeping to herself. I can remember watching her rock back-and-forth, clutching a bible to her chest.

I can remember since my first day here, Lana always stayed perched in her blue chair, bible in hand. She never spoke a word to anyone, only smiled sweetly at those who would stare at her with cruel, judgemental minds, but she wouldn’t harm a fly. Others would say she was “weird”, so I decided to test the myth of little old Lana. She watched with wide-eyes as I started to ambly walk towards her.

“Hi Lana,” I greeted her with a smile. She didn’t reply at first, only a smile in return. Lana looked around the room; you could hear a pin drop as others watched our encounter.

“Hello,” she replied simply as she placed her bible down. Her voice sounded dry, like sandpaper, but her teeth had been as white as a cloud. We talked about anything and everything, we kept talking for months after that, meeting in our usual spot by her blue chair. She was a very sagacious woman. To this day, I still don’t understand why people didn’t like little old Lana.

Lana and I were talking one day, in our usual spots, when a schizophrenic “prisoner” attacked a security guard. Out of my peripheral vision, I saw Lana with her hands clamped over her ears as hard as she possibly could. Lana also had her knees curled up against her chest as she rocked back and forth in the chair. I stood in front of Lana’s view to the thrashing and screaming woman across the dining hall, then placed my hands over hers. “Shh shh, it’s alright,” I whispered near her ear. I coaxed her hands from her ears and held them in mine. 

She shut her eyes tightly and kept screaming, “The man won’t stop! The noises! Stop it!” A familiar doctor rushed over to hold Lana down. Almost seventy percent of the room is screaming, crying, running, or attacking one another. I tried as hard as I could to keep them away. The family. They talk to me and follow me. What I do, they follow suit. I shower, the family shower. They told me that I should throw something or hurt someone, but that doesn’t matter. Sirens started going off and red lights flashed throughout the building. Many, many security guards, nurses, and doctors sprinted in, holding the wild “prisoners” down. I looked at my surroundings frantically trying to find what happened to Lana. She had disappeared. I remember a nurse grabbing my arms violently, dragging me towards to a door and back into my “jail cell”. 

Soon after the riot, Lana was brought to her dorm. About an hour later, the whole world could have heard the screaming coming from little old Lana. She had lost her sense of sanity like the girl in Dorm 201. I guess it happens to everyone after thirty years of being in a “nut-house”. After the screaming that was being produced out of Lana’s room. She got strapped up and thrown into a padded room on the other side of the building. I overheard some doctors talking the next day saying that she wasn’t in the greatest of shape and that she wouldn’t last much longer.

When I was walked down to the dining hall one evening, I asked Doctor Manaria, who took care of the elder women in the building, what they were going to do about Lana. She explained that there wasn’t much they could do until she calmed down and was proven “safe” and “stable”. Lana had stayed in the padded room alone. I asked if she was able to have any visitors, but the only answer I was given was, “she isn’t doing well, I don’t think she’ll last long around people. She has completely lost it.” 

“I’m the only one that talks to her, she’ll go even crazier if she has no interactions with anyone if she’s in there alone for too long. I have to at least see her.”

“I don’t know, I’ll have to consult the other doctors about it, it could take some time though.”

Now, about a month later, I finally hear from Doctor Manaria. She straightforwardly explains that Lana hasn’t been doing well. They moved her from the padded room into a hospital bed for a week now. Lana can’t hear very well, she has been like that for a long time, but it has gotten worse. She’s lost most of her eyesight as well and to make it worse, she has lost most of her muscle mass. I wish it wasn’t her that has to go through this, she was such a delightful woman with such a warmhearted soul, but now she has turned into the living dead. 

I go and visit her, but I can only see Lana through a window and she cannot see me. As I watch her lay in the hospital bed, staring at the ceiling, they have tubes and IVs stuck in her arms as if she’s a pin cushion with sewing needles. She seems to be fragile and confused. I sit watching her for about an hour when all of a sudden, the machine that tracks her heart beat, starts to quicken. It goes faster and faster. She tries to sit up, but falls back into the pillows. No one tries to help, no doctors or nurses race in. She has just died in front of all of us, and they don’t even try to resuscitate. 

I bolt out of my chair and race to the door leading into her room, violently trying to open the door, but it won’t budge. “You have to help her! You can’t just let her die like that!” Multiple security guards grab at my flailing arms and legs as I try to pry the bolted door open. Everything goes black. “You can’t just-” I scream, pleading to help poor little old Lana, but my voice slowly dissipates into the wind. My mouth moves, but there is no sound heard. I watch the nurse open the door into the room where a stiff, cold Lana is and starts disconnecting the tubes, oxygen mask, and IVs. As she removes the last tube from the top of Lana’s hand, everything slowly fades. Everything fades away, including all of the people and objects in the room turn into dust, disappearing into the current of the wind. I scream and plead, but they can’t seem to hear me. Then, everything goes black, my arms, legs, hands, feet, hair, everything surrounding me fades into the wind all at once and I’m gone. 

I wake up in the morgue of the Greystone Psychiatric Hospital, in Greystone Park, Morristown, New Jersey, where the deceased are held. I roam the room, stiff bodies draped in white sheets, laying on cold, hard boards. There is a board with the name on the side that says, “Lana Fearfire”. I touch her arm, but I can’t feel it. I don’t understand. I scurry around the room, trying to feel something, anything. Then, I look into the mirror across the room and freeze, I can’t see myself. I guess I’m turning pale because, honestly, I’m scared. 

“Hey Kassie,” a familiar voice says. “You’ve made it just in time. They have plenty to do here.” 

I slowly turn around and she’s there, taking the sheet off of the corpse and fixing her hair. “Lana? H-how..?” I freeze in my place. I look over to the board next to her’s with the familiar name “Kassandra O’ Reilly”- my name. 

“Don’t worry, it’ll be a simple life now,” she says with a confident yet eerie voice, “it’s better than it was. No more overpopulated ‘nut-houses’.” She talks as if there is no weight being withheld atop her shoulders. Lana, or Lana’s ghost to be exact, walks over and puts her arms around my shoulders, she start to guide me out of the room and into the hallway. “You’ll get used to it sweetie, don’t worry.” She leads me into a hidden room behind a brick wall and there are millions of other peop- no, ghosts, floating around with no worries in the world. “I’ve been waiting so long for you. You overdosed in the bathroom, remember?” I shake my head then look around the room.

I don’t know what to say, but this might be the life for me.


End file.
